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“Gross,” Katie pipes back, proving I’ve done an excellent job of making her feel comfortable here, despite the fact that she’s the only team member under twenty-one. “But will do, boss. You want an iced coffee too? To wash out the nasty taste after the green thing?”
I hesitate only a moment before giving in. “Yes, Katie. Please. That sounds perfect.”
And it does. I will build up my fortitude with green superfoods, caffeinate myself to brimming-with-confidence levels, and then stand firm against Graham’s superpowers of persuasion. There’s nothing he can do to convince me.
Twenty minutes later, Katie knocks on my door.
“Come in.”
When she opens it, she’s carrying a massive bouquet of flowers. Bright orange, sunshine yellow, fiery flowers. Her face is hidden behind three—wait, no, four dozen tiger lilies.
I don’t recall telling him I loved tiger lilies.
But then I remember our phone call a few nights ago. I mentioned them briefly, simply in passing.
The man knows how to listen. He pays attention. He cares.
Talk about a superpower.
Fighting off a massive grin, I take the flowers and set them on my desk.
“These, obviously, are for you,” Katie deadpans. “Based on the sheer number, some guy either needs to make up or convince you to be his, and if you say no, I’ll say yes because a man who sends four dozen flowers is a keeper.”
The smile won’t disappear. “Thank you, Katie.”
She hands me the card. With nervous fingers, I open it.
Stay with me.
Katie clears her throat. “Um, there’s more.”
“More?”
She thrusts a white box at me. The sticker reads Luna’s Sweets. Inside is a delectable-looking whoopie pie. I haven’t had one of these in ages, and it smells delicious. There’s a note here too. A longer one.
I made dinner reservations at eight. I’m taking you out to your favorite restaurant. But feel free to have dessert first. These whoopie pies are irresistible. Just like you.
The grin? It consumes all of me. Not just my face. I swear it’s a full-body smile.
Katie clears her throat. “I have your kale smoothie and the coffee. Do you still want them?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t need them anymore.”
I don’t need fortification because I don’t want to resist him.
Because I’m beginning to understand that he’s not the only teacher around here. I’m teaching myself too, pushing myself to step out of my comfort zone and grow. And the lesson I have mapped out for CJ Murphy for the next few nights is this—learn to enjoy myself with a man without falling head over heels and losing my grip on my sanity.
I will savor this whoopie pie, I will savor the whoopee, and then I will walk away from both with my head held high.
17
CJ
By the end of the day, I’m so hyped up on sugar and anticipation that I decide to hit the gym after all. I would rather shower there than at Graham’s, anyway. The girly part of me likes the idea of arriving at dinner all dolled up and ready to knock Graham’s socks off, instead of allowing him to peek behind the curtain and realize how many times I poke myself in the eye while getting my eyeliner just right. Plus, I snagged a new dress this afternoon at a boutique I love, and some pretty new lingerie, so I’m all set for date night.
I text Graham that I’ll meet him at eight. He texts back that he can’t wait to see me—sending another wave of anticipation rushing through my chest—and I burn up the next two hours with a bike ride, a shower, and a blow-out at the salon on the corner.
At seven fifty, I slip through the thick dinner crowd at Eataly on Fifth Avenue, the combination authentic Italian grocery and vast palace of sinfully delicious eateries of my dreams. But my favorite, of course, is the rooftop bar and grill. I make my way to the hostess stand by the elevators, where a big-eyed Italian girl in a red dress informs me Graham is already waiting for me on the roof.
As the elevator zips skyward, I realize Graham never actually said we were meeting at Birreria, and I smile. There’s something special about not needing any other directions aside from your favorite restaurant at eight.
He knows me.
And I know him.
As I exit the elevator, I head directly for the far end of the bar, where I suspect Graham will be sitting with a half pint of the on-site brewery’s latest concoction. And he is.
“Hey there,” I say as I come to a stop beside him.
He turns from the view of the post-sunset pink sky behind the skyscrapers of Manhattan, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes me thankful for showers, blow-outs, and smoky ash eyeliner that exactly matches my short-sleeved sweater dress.
“Hello, Butterfly.” He shakes his head as his gaze skims up and down, taking me in with an appreciation that makes me feel like the most beautiful woman on the rooftop. “You’re stunning tonight.”
